Twelve Days of Shassie!
by Elske
Summary: I couldn't think of a better title. Slash, of course. Lassiter/Shawn. Christmassy fluff and sexytimes!
1. On the first day of XMas

Carlton Lassiter walks into the office and the first thing he notices is Shawn Spencer, precariously perched on the edge of his desk. Days that start like this never end well, he thinks.

"Lassy!" Spencer calls out, a far too cheerful greeting. "Did you know that this stuff makes an absolutely horrible substitute for chapstick?" He's holding out a bright blue tube with "WET!" on the side; Carlton (to his horror) feels himself blush.

"I don't even want to know, Spencer," he mutters.

"I was at this World AIDS day thing, and my lips were chapped and they were handing out safe sex kits. But don't worry about my lips, Lassy, I found the chapstick in your desk."

(Carlton makes a mental note to replace it as soon as possible.)

"Oh, and that reminds me, here, I got you something," and he tosses a bright foil wrapper in Carlton's general direction.

Carlton wants to ignore it, but instinct kicks in and he catches what turns out to be a root beer flavored condom. "A root beer flavored condom?" he says, incredulity apparent in his voice.

"Do you know how long it took me to find that? They were mostly peppermint. I had to steal that from a very angry lesbian."

"...I don't even like root beer..." Carlton murmurs.

Shawn grins, jumps off of Carlton's desk and leans in to whisper in the other man's ear. "That's not quite the point, Lassy, -I- LOVE it." He licks his lips for emphasis, and Carlton goes quite pale all of a sudden as he figures out exactly what Shawn's implying.

Carlton babbles something incoherent and Shawn grins again. "Anytime you like Lassy, just say the word. It's good to be prepared."


	2. On the second day of XMas

Carlton has a headache this morning, which may or may not be the result of having been awake until two-something in the morning pondering theoretical root-beer flavoured blowjobs and Shawn Spencer and various combinations and permutations therof.

It is with some sense of relief that he discovers Spencer is not, in fact, at his desk this morning. (Relief, and certainly -not- a tinge of regret. Honestly.) Amidst the paperwork is an anomaly, however: two books, and a note.

He picks up the note first. _Dear Lassydear: Saw these books and thought of you. You're welcome. XOXOXXX, Shawn! P.S. I was totally being serious yesterday. You're welcome again._

Reflex makes him crumple the note up in his hand, and then he frowns, smooths it out a bit, and shoves it in the top drawer of his desk. The books are about the Civil War: one looks dusty and epic and smells vaguely of mildew, the other is an oversized paperback with a shiny cover and two handsome men: one in a blue uniform, the other in grey. A novel, he thinks, and he sits down in the deskchair, opens the book.

There's a perfunctory introduction and then the two handsome men from the cover are in a stable of horses and then they're kissing and then they're - they're doing pornographic things, pornographic homosexual things, is what they're doing!

"Carlton? Carlton?" O'Hara clears her throat, and Carlton - startled - closes the book, drops it on his desk, prays to God he isn't blushing. "What are you reading? Oooh!" she squeals, "I LOVE Kitty Warrington, have you read the one about the duke and the florist and..." she trails off, eyes wide, and while Carlton isn't sure if he's blushing or not, O'Hara certainly is.

"Um." she says.

"Um." Carlton says.

"I never saw you reading that."

"This conversation never happened," Carlton agrees.

(And if he finds himself reading That Book over his lunch hour...well, that obviously never happened either. Obviously.)

[_& on the second day of X-Mas his true love gave to him: two civil war books and a root beer flavoured condom!_]


	3. On the fourth day of XMas

[[&Author's Note:

You're probably thinking "Wait, what happened to three? Is Elske THAT bad at math? Fear not, dear readers, the third day was written by another lovely Psych fan and is posted at the psych-slash community on LJ.

Thank you for reading and commenting and adding to favourites lists! That makes me a very happy author. I'm totally having writers block about five, so if you have any ideas, feel free to leave them in the reviews. :D Even if you don't have ideas, feel free to review anyway, because reviews = love. 3, Elske.]]

It had been such a quiet and peaceful morning -well, up until the point when he and O'Hara were sent to a crime scene, but that's a -good- kind of interesting. Not like Spencer appearing with an endless series of perplexing presents.

The grieving widow is giving her statement, and Carlton is listening in: and then he catches the sight of a familiar blue car in his peripheral vision, and his heart flutters- no, no, his heart -sinks- because it was a really nice and peaceful Spencer-free day.

"Hey, Lassy!"

"This is a crime scene, Shawn, you said we were going for Thai food," Gus mutters, looking vaguely annoyed in the distance.

"You can't possibly tell me you two are on this case..."

Shawn shakes his head. "No. I just brought you something, " and he grins and proffers an envelope.

Carlton takes it, gingerly, opens the flap. "Four day passes to Colonial Williamsburg?"

"Yeah. It was today's Groupon. I couldn't resist. You can take anyone you want, but I'd recommend myself, personally, even though Gus did pay..."

"Shawn! You said those were for your dad, for Christmas."

"They might be, Gus. That's really up to Lassy."

Gus shakes his head. "When you're done courting Lassiter, you're buying me lunch. I'm waiting in the car."

Courting Lassiter? Carlton thinks of the condom and the acrobatic historical sex (involving positions he's pretty sure mere mortals could NOT achieve) and the traces of chocolate syrup that lingered in the corners of Spencer's lips the other night, and he closes his eyes tightly. Because this has all got to be some sort of great Cosmic Joke at his expense.

He opens his eyes and O'Hara is close enough to have heard the whole thing, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"Still waiting for MY present, you know," Spencer prods, and then he adds "The wife did it. The gun's in the laundry room, in the clothes drier. You're welcome, -again-, but I've got to go feed Gus, he gets cranky when his blood sugar gets low." he blows a kiss to O'Hara and another towards Carlton before jogging off to Gus's car.

[_& on the fourth day of XMas his true love gave to him: four museum tickets, a three-scoop ice cream sundae (empty), two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom! _]


	4. On the fifth day of XMas

The phrase "courting Lassiter" keeps echoing over and over in Carlton's head, all day long at work - and it doesn't help that O'Hara has taken to smirking at him when she thinks he's not paying attention.

He'd been unsettled when he thought Spencer was just teasing, but there's a small part of him that's actually beginning to think the other man might be -serious- in his flirtations, and that leaves him one third intrigued and one third flattered and three thirds scared to death.

He makes coffee. He settles down to watch TV, and not even re-runs of "Cops" make it any better. Carlton needs advice, and the list of people he could ask is a very, very short one.

Finally, he picks up his mobile phone, presses number three on the speed-dial.

The phone rings and rings and rings, and finally she answers.

"Carlton? It's the middle of the night? Is something wrong, what's going on?" There's panic evident in the young woman's voice, and Carlton instantly regrets phoning.

"It's fine, Lauren, it's nothing, I'm sorry I disturbed you."

He hears his little sister yawn. "Seriously, between one and five in the morning it can't possibly be nothing, not from you, what is it?"

He bites his lip. "Lauren." A long pause. "How do you tell if someone's hitting on you? A guy, how do you tell if a guy's hitting on you?"

Lauren Lassiter falls into what Carlton can only assume is a stunned silence. "I think I need the whole story, to answer that."

And so he tells her, about years of what he'd written off as routine flirtations, about excessive compliments, about a series of gifts that seem to be turning from something lewd and suggestive to something actually -serious-. He doesn't tell her that he's frightened by all this; he doesn't need to.

"Carlton," Lauren says finally, "would it be such a bad thing if he -were- interested? I remember him: he was clever and charming and handsome."

A long pause on Carlton's end. "You wouldn't understand."

"Mom was wrong."

"Pardon?"

"Carlton." Lauren laughs. "You taught me how to be aware of my surroundings. I eavesdropped on her lectures. It wouldn't ruin your life or your career or bring shame on our family. After all, what's the family motto? The one we made up for you and me, when I was ten and you were in Latin class?"

"In veritas veritas," he mumbles, but he's smiling in spite of himself.

"Exactly. Figure it out. And it's okay, however it turns out. I'll always love you, even if you did wake me up at an ungodly hour. Goodnight, Carlton."

"Goodnight, Lauren," and he hangs up the phone.

And that's even more to think about, and finally he gives up on the idea of sleep all together, decides that energy is made of caffeine and carbohydrates, and the neighborhood diners are just opening for breakfast.

He props up the musty civil war book in front of him so it looks like he's busy doing something other than pondering his own stupid screwed up life. The waitress brings him an entire pot of coffee, a basket of flavored non-dairy creamers all to himself and doesn't mind that it takes him three cups of coffee (extra cream extra sugar) before he finds the energy to order his favorite pancakes.

And so Carlton lingers there, drinking coffee and pretending to read history, until it's time to leave for work. When he asks for the check, the waitress shrugs, says "It's taken care of," and hands him a note on a paper napkin.

_Dear Lassy: I didn't want to disturb your reading - that one's all right but the other book's more to my taste. Sorry if Gus was obnoxious.  
>You're welcome for the pancakes. (They're better with pineapple.) Hugs&amp;Kisses, Shawn.<em>

Carlton blinks at the napkin, then looks around the diner. There's no trace of Spencer, but in a moment of quiet he can hear a motorcycle engine in the distance.

[_& on the fifth day of X-Mas his true love gave to him: five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae (empty), two civil war books and a root beer flavored condom!_]


	5. On the sixth day of XMas

The downside of having stayed up all night is twofold: for one, Carlton can barely keep his eyes open as he tries to fill out his paperwork. For another, he's been attacked by a headache that rivals the worst of hangovers (only without the preceding fun times to go with it); attempt to conquer it with extra strength Excedrin and yet another cup of coffee have proven futile.

And then, and then - of course- there's Spencer, arrived to pick up his paycheck and spread holiday cheer about the police station while he's at it. He has a basket of candy canes that he's distributing amongst the staff, along with overly cheerful holiday greetings. Carlton covers a yawn with one hand and can't decide if he hopes he'll be noticed or if he hopes he'll be ignored.

"Dear Lassydear!" a familiar voice calls out, and Carlton uses one foot to nudge his desk chair around to face Spencer.

"Spencer," he says, by way of acknowledgement. It comes out far softer than the curtness he was intending.

"Did you enjoy your pancakes?" he asks, with a grin.

"Are you stalking me?" Carlton replies, quickly.

"Lassy, please. Psychic. Remember? Besides, Tuesdays are always pineapple pancake morning. I brought you something, although if you keep being ungrateful..."

Carlton feels himself begin to blush. "I'm not ungrateful. Thank you, very much, for the pancakes."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Spencer winked. "Anyway, here." He holds out a handful of rainbow candy canes, tied with a bright red ribbon.

"I'm allergic..." Carlton begins, but Spencer interrupts.

"The red and white ones are peppermint, and the rainbow ones are cherry. Everyone knows that. They have mote colors and are clearly superior and I bought the box just for you, Lassy, though I might have eaten a couple. You're welcome, again," he adds, as Carlton reaches out and takes the bouquet of candy.

"Did you really want to go to Virginia?" Carlton asks, clumsily, his gaze falling on the envelope of museum tickets.

"Virginia? Dude, I thought that was in Anaheim," Spencer deadpans - poorly! - and Carlton smiles.

"You're thinking of Disneyland."

Spencer shrugs. "I've heard it both ways. It occurs to me, dear Lassy, that you still haven't given me anything. I've worked it all out, though, you're buying me dinner tomorrow. Someplace nice." He grins then, and holds up a handful of red and white candy canes. "More Christmas cheer to go around; I'll see you tomorrow, don't forget."

Carlton watches him go, a little bit stunned, and he shifts the bouquet of candy to the crook of his arm so he can hide another yawn. When he falls asleep at his desk, he's still possessively holding the candy, and he's smiling a bit, and he's only vaguely aware of the faint click on O'Hara's cellphone camera when she takes his photograph (and texts it to Spencer).

[_ and on the sixth day of x-mas his true love gave to him: six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom! _]


	6. On the seventh day of XMas

[&author's note:

Thank you so much for all of you that are reading this, adding me and this story to your favorite and alert lists and a SPECIAL thank you for all of you who are reviewing! :D

If you don't know me that well, you might not know that I am a total bah humbug grumpy Christmas-hating Scrooge, typically. My mom advised me to try to embrace Christmas this year, and…well, isn't holiday slashy goodness the best way to accomplish that? I mean, seriously! I'm having a ton of fun writing this…I still have to figure out eight, nine and ten…I've got eleven and twelve all sorted, though. ::evil grins:: And an epilogue. And…did you know that the twelve days of Christmas aren't those that lead up to Christmas but the twelve days leading up to Twelfth Night? I did, and Gus probably does, and Shawn doesn't. Hahaha.

Anyway. Love to you all. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing and generally being awesome. Peace, love and slash,

&hearts, Elske]

The day is almost three-quarters over, and it has been a blissfully boringly Spencer free six hours.

And then, apropos of nothing, his partner is giving him one of those disconcerting Spenceresque grins, and she clears her throat clumsily and says, "So, Carlton, where are you taking Shawn on your date tonight?"

His denial reflex kicks in. "What are you talking about? You shouldn't eavesdrop on other people's private - I am not dating Spencer - it's not a date, and I didn't plan - was he being serious?" Denial dissolves into confusion, and he sighs, and O'Hara's eyes go very, very wide.

"I wasn't eavesdropping, I was just standing there!" she says, and then she reaches out and pats Carlton's shoulder. "I used to date Shawn, remember? So I know him well enough to know that, date or not a date, he's going to be disappointed if there's no dinner."

Carlton sighs, closes his eyes, tilts his desk chair so far back that it's practically in danger of overbalancing. "I'm not very good at this," he admits in a small pained voice. He's the kind of person who hates to admit being less than perfect at anything, after all. A long silence, and then he opens his eyes, manages a smile. "Just between us, thank you, O'Hara."

"Always," she replies, and Carlton rummages through the bottom drawer of his desk for a big old-fashioned yellow phone book, flips to R for "Restaurant", begins calling around for last minute reservations.

At six o'clock, he drives to the Psych office, and Spencer is there waiting, opens the door before Carlton even has a chance to knock.

"Gus bet me you wouldn't show up. He totally owes me a pizza!" he says, triumphantly, and Carlton slumps, a little.

"Nice to see you too," he mutters. "Glad I won you your bet."

Spencer snorts. "Please, Lassydear, you're worth so much more than a pineapple and sweetcorn pizza." He beams, then says "Oh, I almost forgot, I got you something," and he steps back into the office, grabs up two DVD cases off of the desk. "Did you know they sell movies at the library booksale?"

"Six western classics, and...Brokeback Mountain?" Carlton raises one eyebrow and Spencer just smiles.

"A little bird told me you like cowboy movies. So are we going to get dinner? Dude, I'm starving." He closes and locks the door to the office, grabs Carlton's hand, and begins maneuvering the pair of them towards Carlton's car.

[_ and on the seenth day of Xmas his true love gave to him: seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books and a root beer flavoured condom! _]


	7. On the eighth day of XMas

Carlton has never been happier to be at a crime scene in his life: because it's keeping O'Hara from asking him about what may or may not have been his date with Spencer last night. It's keeping him from dwelling on it, moreover - (a pleasant enough though confusing event, where they discussed their mothers and cowboy movies and that show on the history channel where people shoot guns at things that Carlton secretly wants to be on). And the whole thing was admittedly a bit soured by thinking of Guster and Spencer betting about him.

It's hard to think about any of this when you're staring at a man dead in his kitchen, surrounded by broken porcelain and the remains of what was apparently an unsatisfactory breakfast. Meanwhile the dead man's young girlfriend is in a state of shock, can't be coaxed into letting go of the cast-iron murder weapon, admits flat-out that she's the one that killed him but claims self-defense and a history of abuse and it's going to be a very very long day.

O'Hara never gets a chance to ask about the maybe-date and Carlton never gets a chance to mention it. It's full dark by the time he leaves the police station.

Just after he gets home, he hears his phone ring: not the ringtone for the station and -he realizes with a twinge of disappointment - not Spencer's ringtone either.

"Lassiter," he answers.

"Hello, Detective Lassiter. This is Burton Guster calling," says Guster in an falsely cheerful tone. "I am calling in order to enquire what you like on your pizza."

The question is so out of the blue - and worlds away from the thoughts of abused women and death-by-griddle - that it takes Carlton a moment to even process the question. "Pizza? From where?"

He can hear Guster's voice, muffled, asking the question, and Spencer's indistinct reply in the background. "It doesn't matter. Assume you have - anywhere in the city, really Shawn? - anywhere in the city."

"Um. Pizza Margherita, authentic Italian, I guess."

"Thank you very much, " and Guster hangs up the phone.

Carlton doesn't have enough brain left to figure any of this out, so he just drops the phone next to the gun on the kitchen table and goes to shower, change his clothes, and find that program with all the guns on tv.

He's honestly surprised when he hears the knock at his front door, and sure enough, there's Spencer on his doorstep, grinning sheepishly, holding a pizza box. "Hey Lassy. Nice pajamas."

"...really?" is all he can think to say.

"Really. So. Remember yesterday, when I told you about Gus and the bet and you got all mopey?"

"I don't mope, Spencer."

"And I got to thinking that you were thinking that this was like She's All That. Or How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. Or Antitrust. Maybe not Antitrust, but anyway! I decided that the only way to prove it's about you and not a bet - I brought you the pizza. Your favorite pizza. Here."

Carlton, still looking stunned, takes the pizza box. "I wasn't even, um, thinking that. But, thank you," and he smiles, and yeah, it might have been a date and he's surprisingly something more than okay with that.

Shawn smiles back. "You're welcome." He shifts his weight suddenly, leans up and in, and kisses Carlton - so quickly it might have been a trick of the light or a figment of Carlton's imagination - and then he's turning away, dashing towards the warm shell of Guster's car.

Carlton actually reaches up, touches his own lips, and smiles into the night.

[_ the eighth day of XMas his true love gave to him: eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom!_]


	8. On the ninth day of XMas

[[Author's Note:

I've been having a lousy week, and so here's a subpar chapter of Twelve Days of Shassie to go along with it. Yay! I got a cold, failed a biology exam, and have been in a crankypants mood. Luckily, slash cures all ills, so here is chapter nine.

Again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and favoriting and what have you. It really means so much to me, as I know it does to all authors, but I'm feeling sentimental, so: thank you, thank you, thank you. :D Just three more chapters to go with this and then…well, I've got another Christmas surprise in the works, don't worry!

&hearts, Elske]]

Carlton's just leaving Chief Vick's office when he hears O'Hara calling his name.

"What is it, O'Hara?" he asks, slowly, because she's got that girlish grin again and he's not sure how much more of that he can handle, what with all the extra Shawn Spencer in his life lately.

"Shawn was just here, but you missed him. He gave me a message for you, though," she says, and she's practically bouncing, and she lowers her voice, conspiratorially. "Carlton?"

"What?"

"I think you make a good couple. If you are a couple. I'm not going to ask, because it's none of my business."

Carlton, to his surprise, finds himself smiling. "I...thank you, O'Hara. Dare I ask what the message was?"

"He asked me to give you this." She hands him a movie ticket. "And to tell you to pick him up at his place at eight. And that because he's buying the tickets you have to buy the snacks. And..." she trails off into one of those bright-eyed smiles. "He instructed me to give you a kiss, on the cheek, playful with a hint of longing. I'm...I'm not actually going to do that."

"It's probably for the best." He takes the movie ticket, slips it into the inside pocket of his suit, and it's perhaps the longest most boring day of work ever.

He's there to pick up Spencer right on schedule, and it turns out to be a good thing that they've already got tickets because there's a huge line at the ticket counter.

They have to stop at the concession stand, of course, and Spencer asks for a pineapple slushie with two straws, and actually winks at the girl behind the counter.

It turns out Spencer has a favourite seat at the cinema: all the way to the left, three rows from the back. After the lights go out, Spencer whispers "Here, Lassy, this'll be more comfortable," and he lifts the arm-rest out of the way, before exaggeratedly yawning and then draping one arm around Carlton's shoulders.

Carlton wants to remark about how it's the first time he's ever seen anyone do that in real life, but he refrains. It turns out he's braver in the dark: he's never been one for public displays of affection, but this invitation proves irresistable. He cuddles up against the other man, rests his head against Spencer's chest and tries, desperately, to pay attention to the film instead of being carried off by daydreams or worries.

[_&on the ninth day of XMas his true love gave to him: a nine o'clock feature film, eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom!_]


	9. On the tenth day of XMas

[[Author's Note:

Thank you again, everyone. You are so awesome. Your kind words were just what I needed to brighten up a horrible few days. Things are looking up. I get to retake my exam open book on Tuesday. (YAY! Oh, Essentials of Biology, you are my costumed arch-nemesis. I can't wait until I get to literature and English composition.) I would make a public service announcement here about how you should learn from my fail in getting a degree in French Literature and then finding it useless and having to start from scratch five years later in a field that actually contains job opportunities, but you're not here for lectures, you're here for Shassie goodness, which there is within.

This is the longest chapter yet and I think it makes up for the last one. :D Now if I had the slightest idea of what to get MY true love for Christmas. Bah.

Again. Thank you: I'm just amazed by how many of you are reading and reviewing and favoriting and it does this slash fan good! When I'm done with this epic, I might take prompt requests for Shassie, so look for that opportunity.

You are the all weather tires on the alpine highways of my life. H&Ks, Elske.]]

It's been an easy day at work, so far, for which Carlton is glad: it's a nice change of pace, and there's even time to go out to lunch with O'Hara (Chinese, her treat). He admires her restraint - it's so obvious that she wants details, about Spencer, about himself, but she's not asking and he's not volunteering. And the not volunteering isn't because he doesn't want to, it isn't that he distrusts his partner (truth be told, the only person on the planet he trusts more than his partner is his little sister). The problem is that he doesn't know the answers. Are he and Spencer an item? A couple? A -good- couple, as O'Hara so charmingly put it? And being half of a couple in which the other half consists of another man was oh-so-appealling when he was seventeen and fearless, but now he's headed for the wrong side of forty and all the rules have changed. He's got an ex-wife and an ex-con ex-girlfriend and at this point he's pretty sure it's him that's the problem in these equations.

He thinks he spots a familiar motorcycle in the parking-lot, and he wonders idly if it's Spencer's. He wouldn't be surprised, but he's not certain if he does or does not want to see the other man, just now. The movie (and, yes, fine, the cuddling -how long had it been since he'd done that with anyone? Too long.-) and it was -nice-, domestic and nice and then, at Spencer's doorstep, a moment of awkwardness where Carlton was caught between wanting to kiss him and not quite daring to and there was something hurt in Spencer's eyes when he murmured a soft quick goodnight.

And O'Hara's been talking the whole time and he hasn't heard a word she's said and he prays it wasn't anything important. Crossing the room to his desk, he spots something bright and red gleaming up from the pile of paperwork. "What the..." he mutters under his breath, getting close enough to determine the glittery mess is, in fact, ten chocolate candy kisses in red foil wrappers arranged in a lopsided attempt at a heart. A small piece of paper, folded in half, sits in the middle of the candy.

Carlton's smiling as he picks up the note.  
><em>Dear Lassy:<br>I'd have given you ten real kisses, you know, but I wasn't sure you'd want them. But who doesn't like candy kisses?  
>XO, you know who.<em>

He feels something cold in the pit of his stomach; he swears under his breath and crumples the note into an angry ball. "O'Hara? I'll be right back," he announces, and then he's sprinting back to the parking lot, hoping to catch Spencer before he leaves, if that even was his motorcycle in the first place.

Luck is on his side. He arrives just as Spencer is about to put on his helmet.

"Hey, Lassy. Did you get your present?" Spencer asks, softly, and his smile looks forced.

"Yes. It was. Yes. Look, Spencer," he babbles, taking a step forward right into Spencer's personal space, trapping the other man between himself and the motorcycle. "I need to tell you, I need to...you've gotta know, I..." and the words aren't working so he reaches out, grabs Spencer by the shoulders and pulls him in roughly close, tilts his head to kiss the other man full on the lips.

He can feel the surprise, the shock, in the rigidity of Spencer's posture: and then the other man relaxes into the kiss, twines his arms around Carlton and he isn't quite sure but he thinks he feels a flicker of Spencer's tongue against his lips. That's startling enough to make him pull back, just a bit; he blinks rather helplessly down at Spencer and he's gratified to notice that there's nothing forced in his smile, this time.

"Carlton Lassiter, you astound me," Spencer murmurs, his voice pleased. There's an echo of familiarity about those words that makes Carlton flush, but he says nothing, just looks down at Spencer for a long moment before reluctantly letting him do.

"Um. I have...you know...work, and..."

"Right. Lassy? What are you doing tomorrow night?" Spencer asks, reaching again for his motorcycle helmet.

"Tomorrow night? It's Christmas eve."

"I know. Question still stands."

Carlton sighs. "Do you want the truth? I'll wait for my hypocrite mother to call and I'll listen to her guilt-trip me over the answering machine. And then my misguided stepmother will do the same thing. Lauren will have the good sense to call my mobile phone and spare me a few minutes of conversation before she's back to the loving arms of her work family in Boston or Baltimore or wherever they're filming now. And then I'll get the scotch and have a drink and watch whatever the true crime channel is playing until I fall asleep on the sofa."

"Sounds delightful. Want some company?" Spencer grins.

"I think that might be nice," says Carlton, and he surprises himself because it's the truth.

[_and on the tenth day of XMas his true love gave to him: ten chocolate-candy kisses, a nine o'clock feature film, eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books and a root beer flavored condom!_]


	10. On the eleventh day of XMas

[[Author's Notes:

I love you all. Your reviews mean the world to me. :D They're like a fantastic early Christmas present. And I will be offering a very special something to each of you reviewers in my next post, so be on the lookout for that. ;)

Peace, love, and slash,

&hearts, Elske]]

True to his word; Carlton Lassiter is spending his Christmas eve exactly the way he'd told Spencer that he would be - he hasn't started drinking yet, true, but the evening is young. He's just finished his phonecall with Lauren and studiously ignored the call from his mother (and erased the evidence on the answering-machine tape). Meanwhile, he's plopped on the couch, and the true crime channel is playing Dateline and there's nothing Christmassy at all about that, and it's just the way he likes it.

He's almost startled when he hears someone knocking at his door, as if part of him doubted that Spencer would actually show up - as if maybe Spencer might have gotten a better offer somewhere along the lines. But sure enough, it's Shawn Spencer on his doorstep.

"Merry Christmas Eve, Lassydear!" Spencer proclaims, reaching out and pulling Carlton into a hug, right there in the doorway.

"Spencer. Um. You want to come in?"

Spencer gives him a look. "No, I drove all the way over here just to stand outside your house. Be sensible. Oh, and I brought you this," and he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a - slightly emptied - bottle of alcohol. "Eleven fluid ounces of the best scotch I could find on late notice. I was going to pour it into one of those fancy crystal bottles classy people have in their houses, but I didn't think it would survive the trip over here."

Carlton grins. "I used to have one of those." He takes the gift from Spencer, sets it down on an end-table.

"Past tense, Lassy? What happened?"

"If I can't shoot things when I get mad, I break things. It was a bad day. Ever been called collect and then dumped? From jail?"

"Nope. You've got one on me there." Spencer shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes, and then unbuttons his jeans.

Carlton raises one eyebrow. "What...what are you doing?" he asks, and there's something a tiny bit nervous in his voice.

"Taking off my pants, and I suggest that you do the same." He looks at the frozen expression on Carlton's face, and pouts. "I can't be the only one without pants, that'll be awkward. And how are you supposed to relax while wearing pants? Think back, think about your whole entire life and name one time you've been truly relaxed while wearing pants. I dare you."

Carlton ponders the question, and finds that he has no choice but to agree. "You make a valid point."

"Thank you." Spencer's stepped out of his jeans and stoops to pick them up off of the floor. He folds them carelessly, tosses them over by his shoes. "If you're going commando, you totally reserve the right to make me take these off too," he adds, gesturing to his green boxer-briefs, and Carlton feels himself start to blush.

"No, no, it's fine," and he undoes his belt, unzips his pants, and he can feel the heaviness of Spencer's gaze the whole time.

"Dude, this is the most boring strip-tease ever," Shawn says, with a wink. "Are we not at the watching one another take off clothing stage of our relationship? It's okay, I'll get some glasses for the scotch, or did you break all those too?"

"Cabinet next to the refrigerator," Carlton stammers, and when Shawn's in the other room, he manages to get his pants off, and then he decides that it looks ridiculous to be in worn out boxer shorts and socks and no pants, so he pulls off his socks before curling up, almost defensively, into a corner of the sofa.

"Here we are," Spencer says, passing a glass of scotch to Carlton, sitting very close next to him on the sofa. "What's going on?" he adds, pointing to the television, and Carlton fills him in on what happened in the first half hour of Dateline.

The uncomfortableness passes, rather quickly, Carlton finds: and if you'd asked him a month ago if he'd ever be comfortable pantsless on a sofa drinking scotch with Shawn Spencer, he'd have told you to get your head examined or perhaps threatened to shoot you, but it's funny how life works sometimes. He reaches over and absently begins running his fingers through Spencer's hair; is gratified by the response (a pleased sort of murmuring from the other man, a shifting closer on the couch, an abandoning of an empty glass on the carpeted floor.)

"For the love of Val Kilmer, Lassy, kiss me already," Spencer mumbles, reaching out to take Carlton's empty glass away and discard it next to his. "Please? It is Christmas?"

Carlton blinks for a moment, then shifts his weight abruptly sideways, and then Spencer's flat on his back on the sofa peering up at him and it's really quite breathtaking, the feeling of being _wanted_. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, with a smile, and leans over to give the other man a chaste peck on the lips.

Spencer mutters something incomprehensible, reaches out and wraps both arms around Carlton, pulling him roughly down on top of him. "I know you can do better than that," he teases, and Carlton obliges.

And so this is Christmas Eve: falling asleep on the sofa with true crime on tv and a bottle of scotch at hand, but this year with extra Shawn Spencer kisses and cuddles to sweeten the deal.

[_and on the eleventh day of X-Mas his true love gave to him: eleven (fluid) ounces of scotch, ten chocolate candy kisses, a nine o'clock feature film, eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanutbutter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books and a root beer flavoured condom!_]


	11. On the twelfth day of XMas

[[Author's Notes:

Merry early Christmas!

Here, at last, is the twelfth day. I'm sorry to see it end. I was going to wait for Christmas, but I couldn't resist, so here is an early present to you (not to mention to Lassy and to Shawn, hehe).

And I have another present in mind for you, dear readers! It won't be done by Christmas, so it'll be a twelfth night present. All of you who have reviewed this: Ly, MoonWiccan6, Taskiko Sato, NekodraK., fmapreshwab, islashlove, torchil, and jerseybelle: I am going to write a drabble for each of you! :D Just leave me a prompt in a review or a pm, and I will write for you. If anyone else wants a drabble written just for them, leave me a review and prompt and I'll see what I can do. (I am not above bribery for reviews! Hahahaha.)

Merry Christmas everyone!

&hearts, Elske]]

Carlton wakes up with a start at the sound of the television turning off: instinct has him jumping to his feet, reaching for a gun he's not wearing.

"Shh, Lassy, relax, it's just me," and Spencer's next to him in the nearly-dark room, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"What...what time is it?" Carlton asks, still fuzzy-brained from the abrupt shift from asleep to awake.

Spencer tilts his head, kisses him on the cheek. "A little after midnight. Which means it's Christmas. Which means I have one more gift for you. Come on," and he reaches for Carlton's hand, twines his fingers through Carlton's and squeezes tight.

Carlton smiles to himself, lets Spencer lead him, slow step by slow step, towards his bedroom - which is glowing in a fashion that Carlton is definitely NOT used to.

"Spencer? Are those...Christmas lights? In my bedroom?" There's a hint of sleepy increudlity in his voice.

"Of course. It IS Christmas." Spencer's grin is illuminated by the glow of multicoloured twinkling lights, wrapped around the bedposts of Carlton's bed (and trailing rather dangerously across the floor to the most inconvenient outlet possible, and that's probably a fire hazard, but Carlton's not going to argue it.)

"When did you decorate my bedroom for Christmas?"

"When you were asleep. It was during the second showing of the one about the Excedrin murders - and I totally don't think that Snow woman is guilty - but that's not the point."

"It's...I don't know what to say."

"The mood lighting is a nice touch, if I do say so myself, but it's not your present." Spencer nudges Carlton towards the bed: Carlton sits down gingerly on the edge of it and Spencer rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Lassy? Is that comfortable? I don't think that's comfortable."

Carlton shakes his head, stretches out across the middle of his bed - and yes, it's a king size bed, but he's been sleeping alone long enough to feel the right to sleep in the damn middle of the damn bed if he wants to! - and he wonders vaguely if he should move over, but then Spencer's stretched out at his side, nearly on top of him.

"Merry Christmas, Lassydear," he murmurs, and then tilts his head to kiss Carlton's forehead. "One," he murmurs, and then follows with two (on his cheek) three (his jaw) and four (just below his ear), before stopping to tug at the hem of Carlton's shirt. Carlton obliges by lifting his arms, helping Spencer divest him of the obstacle, and then there's kisses five to his shoulder and six to his collarbone and seven to his throat. Eight nine ten and eleven trail down his chest; twelve is at the inside of his thigh, just at the edge where underwear gives way to skin.

Carlton shivers all over; Spencer looks pointedly sideways, and grins, his smile illuminated in the twinkling Christmas lights. "Ohh, and you've something for me there, haven't you? Lassy, you shouldn't have!"

With a wordless murmur Carlton reachces out to pull Spencer into a kiss; and once Spencer's been properly kissed he turns his head to whisper, deliberately, into Carlton's ear: "Lassy? Do you still have that first present I got you?"

[_And on the twelfth day of XMas his true love gave to him: twelve lingering kisses, eleven (fluid) ounces of scotch, ten chocolate candy kisses, a nine o'clock feature film, eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanut butter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books, and a root beer flavored condom (...used.)_]


End file.
